Skellig, Azkaban, Albion, Éire
by starfishstar
Summary: Sirius sometimes thought the ceaseless crash of the waves was the only thing that kept him sane. / Remus found himself drawn to the far-flung edges, the places where the world seemed to drop into the sea.


**Notes:** Two big thank-yous are due here: First of all to the good folks at hp-britglish (a great resource, especially for those of us who are not British but trying to write about British things!) who jumped in with fast, thorough and thoughtful suggestions about places Remus might go. Any remaining geographical inaccuracies are my own! Secondly, thank you to stereolightning for beta-reading and asking very good questions.

This story was initially inspired by Loreena McKennitt's song "Skellig," which in turn is about Skellig Michael, or Great Skellig, a rocky, uninhabited island off the coast of Ireland that's the site of a former monastery. A little bit Azkaban-ish, I find.

And because lately I find myself interested in playing with form via word count restrictions, Sirius' and Remus' sections here are precisely the same length – each 650 words exactly.

. . . . .

_Many a year was I_  
_Perched out upon the sea_  
_The waves would wash my tears,_  
_The wind my memory_

_._

Sirius sometimes thought the ceaseless crash of the waves was the only thing that kept him sane. That, and the knowledge of his innocence. Oh, he was guilty, guilty in ways he could never again make good, but he was not guilty of the crime for which he'd been imprisoned. And that was at least a small thing.

He lay in his cell and days passed, or years or hours, and the waves broke against the rocks below and Sirius imagined how they must look, white foam churning up as the unstoppable grey ocean met implacable black rock. Sometimes he transformed into his Animagus form and then the smells came to him clearly, the salt-sea scent that surrounded him.

He saw James and Lily, always. He was sure someone had told him once that all memories fade with time, but their memory didn't. It was easier as a dog; the scent of the stag was something he could never forget.

Oh, the icy chill of the Dementors as they crept by his cell, rattling their putrid breath and trying to steal his memories. But that James and Lily were dead – _dead_, betrayed by a friend they'd trusted implicitly, a friend who'd smiled and said, _Of course, James, I'd be glad to_ – that wasn't a happy memory.

Nor was the knowledge of Sirius' own tainted innocence – not guilty of raising the wand that had killed his best friends, but guilty of everything else, of every failure to protect them, every failure to see what was right before his eyes. He could rail all he liked at the blindness of those who had locked him away here without a trial, yet they were more right than they knew. He was guilty.

When Sirius closed his own eyes now he saw Lily's sightless green eyes gazing up at him, saw James sprawled, messy-haired as ever, on the floor. And Harry, squirming contentedly in Hagrid's arms, not understanding. Sirius had whispered a promise to his godson then that he would be back for him soon, and now, thanks to his own rash need for vengeance, he would never make good on those words.

These were things he could hold onto.

Sirius rolled himself more tightly into the tattered blanket that was his cell's only cold comfort, closed his eyes and let the crashing of the waves lull him in and out of tormented sleep. They couldn't take his memories, not all of them. They couldn't take his knowledge.

He breathed in and out, in time with the swell of the sea, and asked himself questions he could not answer. Where was Harry, now? Who had taken him in? Where was Remus, Remus whom he'd wrongly suspected, and now he would never have a chance to tell him how sorry he was? Where was – but Sirius refused to even think his name.

The rat. He spent many nights tossing and turning and cursing the rat. It was only the soothing of the waves that could bring him back from losing himself entirely to the madness of dreamt revenge.

Would he ever escape these walls to exact that revenge?

Could he ever forgive himself, either way?

No. Forgiveness was a luxury he didn't deserve.

But he could wish it for others. Wherever Remus was, Sirius hoped he wasn't blaming himself. Wherever Harry was, he hoped he was safe, and if it wasn't too much to ask, loved.

Sirius closed his eyes hard against the gloom and pictured his godson, somewhere far across the pounding surf. He didn't dare to hope it, but maybe, somehow, he would live to see the boy again, and to beg his forgiveness. It could never be enough, but it was a small thing.

When winter storms came, the wind howled around the prison walls, shrieking, _You are guilty!_ But the shush-shush of the waves against the shore said, _You will survive._

.

_I'd hear the ocean breathe_  
_Exhale upon the shore_  
_I knew the tempest's blood_  
_Its wrath I would endure_

.

Remus found himself drawn to the far-flung edges, the places where the world seemed to drop into the sea.

He wandered the Isle of Skye, feeling nothing but rage for the beauty of its dramatic slopes and charming glens. He crossed the island on its rockiest paths, walked out to the very tip of Neist Point at night and screamed into the wind.

He went north; he paced the stark clifftop at Cape Wrath and thought that he would kill Sirius if he ever got the chance. And then he thought that, no, even that would be no good.

He stood atop the Cliffs of Moher on an incongruously sunny day and finally allowed the tears to fall. He had lost everyone. In one horrifying twist, one inconceivable betrayal, Remus had lost all the people he loved most. He'd stood alone in the street, still too stunned to believe, as magical fireworks exploded overhead and all the world seemed lost in celebration. Surely he deserved to shed a few tears, despite the share of guilt he bore?

No. He didn't deserve to indulge in sadness. Not when James and Lily and Peter were dead and he the last one left standing. What had he ever done to deserve to live?

He struck inland from the Irish coast, through the desolation of the Burren, not seeing the rocky landscape around him, not feeling the burn in his muscles as he walked for days on end. Even human, his nose picked out the trails of animals he passed, remembered the scents of the stag and the dog and the rat, and he nearly stumbled where he stood.

How had he not seen?

He stalked back and forth along Yorkshire's rock-strewn beaches and demanded of himself an impossible answer. Sirius had been the spy. It made no sense, but it had been so. And Remus _should have seen_.

He might as well have killed them himself.

He stood atop Cape Cornwall and stared out at the sea, suddenly thinking of Lily's laugh and James' terrible puns. Remus almost laughed, too, then stopped just as abruptly.

He Apparated all the way to Shetland, to Out Stack, stood at the boundaries of the known world and waited and waited, as if he might glimpse something better beyond.

Defeated, he wandered the quiet beaches of the Llyn Peninsula, trying to find any comfort in the coves and cliffs of his childhood, in the gentle waves lapping stretches of white sand. Where was Harry now? Who would raise him? His parents were dead and his godfather a traitor. The closest thing Harry still had to an uncle was him, Remus, a broken man, a dangerous beast, and a blind fool as well. If he could not keep Lily and James safe, he certainly should not be trusted with Harry. Wherever their son was now, it was better this way.

Remus felt the sea pressing in on him from all sides, hemming in this small, green island of his birth, Britain, old Albion, and each ocean vista was just another wall of his prison. He could not escape himself.

It was while gazing out to sea from the rocky slopes of Great Skellig that Remus said aloud, "I've got to get out of this place." A seagull atop a nearby pile of scree flapped away, startled.

It was a coward's choice, but it was the only one he had left. He would go to Europe, India, it didn't matter where. Away.

That night, Remus went to the flat that had once been his home, packed a bag and caught the first morning train out of London. The clacking train wheels chanted, _Coward, coward_, and Remus bowed his head and accepted that guilt, too. But as he watched Dover disappear into the fog behind the ferry rail, the waves lapping the boat's hull seemed to whisper, _You will survive._

. . . . .

**End note:** There's now a sequel-of-sorts, "Cast Your Soul to the Sea."


End file.
